


when the world breaks your heart

by alovelylight



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Pining, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 14:49:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17983163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alovelylight/pseuds/alovelylight
Summary: Without registering what he’s doing, Horatio strides across the room to sit next to Hamlet. Their knees press together and his arm flushes against Hamlet’s, the coldness on each of their skin canceling the other out to make room for warmth. Hamlet doesn’t move an inch as Horatio puts his arm around him, but the tension in his body loosens as he tucks his head beneath Horatio’s chin.Horatio doesn’t allow himself to think.





	when the world breaks your heart

Horatio’s new roommate looks like he hasn’t slept for a year, or possibly for even longer. His slight frame is drowned out by the ridiculous size of his leather jacket and the bags beneath his eyes are _almost_ dark enough to distract Horatio from how gray those eyes are.

“I love Balzac,” he says by way of greeting, glancing at Horatio’s secondhand copy of _Cousin Bette,_ which is lying open on his desk.

“Cool beans,” says Horatio. He hates the tone of casualness he forced into his voice. “I’m taking a class on the French Romantics.”

“Are you a literature major?”

“Philosophy,” Horatio says, feeling the tinge of excitement he gets whenever he talks about his studies. “Ethics, logic, epistemology. All the cool stuff that keeps me up at night. You?”

“I’m still undecided.”

He seems a bit embarrassed, averting his eyes and blushing through the impeccable paleness of his skin, so Horatio says, “You’ll know when you know. Do you have any particular leanings so far?”

“My leanings all tug me in such different directions, I’m rendered helpless in an ocean of possibilities.”

Drama queen much, Horatio thinks. At least the new guy isn’t dramatic in the same vein as his old roommate, Mercutio, who moved to the new dorm by the end of freshman year. By the looks of him, it’s highly unlikely that _he’ll_ throw spontaneous parties or fool around with his boyfriends in Horatio’s bed.

He could be a murderer waiting to snap, but Horatio will take his chances.

* * *

By the end of the month, Horatio doesn’t remember a time where he hasn’t lived alongside Hamlet.

He is more or less an insomniac, but he’s also an early riser. When Horatio’s still blinking cobwebs of his sleep in the early mornings, he’s already at his ancient laptop, furiously clanking out something due on that day.

He possesses stacks of dusty old books and endless clusters of highlighters (he is always indecisive about which one to use) and laminated posters of Brendon Urie, to Horatio’s fond amusement.

He seems to run entirely on black coffee and saltines. Though they are university students, there is something about him that reminds Horatio of his teenage self, stuck in a cycle of unhealthy habits, inwardly drawn from the world.

He has a lot of interesting ideas about the nature of death. Human knowledge of what happens in death after limited, and since death is an inevitable part of life, life is inherently meaningless. Horatio has tried to counter this sense of nihilism a hundred times with the philosophy books, but to no avail.

He also has very pretty eyes.

One Friday night, they are both in their room. Hamlet is hunched over a dense textbook (Horatio knows it is dense because he keeps huffing under his breath) so Horatio decides to brew him a cup of tea. He has acquired a reputation for being the mother hen among his friends, and though he and his roommate aren’t exactly _friends_ , they don’t bite each other’s heads off.

Hamlet looks up in surprise when Horatio sets a Hufflepuff-themed mug down in front of him. “What is this?”

“Magic potion. It’ll make you stop huffing.”

Hamlet sniffs. “Humor isn’t appreciated right now.”

“Dude, it’s English Breakfast. I would make green tea since that’s scientifically proven to improve your focus, but you don’t...seem the type to enjoy green tea.”

“You would be right,” Hamlet says. The corners of his lips twitch into a smile and his eyes crinkle like paper, and Horatio tries not to stare. “Thank you, Horatio.”

It’s the first time he says his name.

* * *

“So, there’s this party tonight,” Horatio begins, reaching out to touch Hamlet’s shoulder before he leaves for his morning class.

“Should we barricade our door?” He stiffens for a second, and Horatio promptly pulls his hand away.

“Ha. But, no, I’m asking if you’d want to come with me.”

“You’re asking me.”

“Yes.”

“To attend a social function. With you.”

“That bit is clear. Listen, since it’s not your thing, we don’t have to go. I just thought that we might grab a few drinks and have stupid fun; it’s been a long week.”

“How do you know it’s not my thing?”

Horatio raises his eyebrows, surprised at the hint of challenge in Hamlet’s voice. “Okay, I hope this doesn’t sound too rude, but do you have any friends, Hamlet? Besides from me, I mean.”

He instantly regrets the words as soon as he says them, but Hamlet shows no outward expression. “You consider us friends?”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” he scratches the nape of his neck. “I think you’re cool, and you’re probably the best roommate I’ve had. Which is a pretty low bar, but you’ve far exceeded it.” He doesn’t say _I think you’re the most fascinating person I’ve ever met_ and he hopes that Hamlet doesn’t have any psychic abilities; he wouldn’t put it past him.

“Then I’ll go,” says Hamlet, and to Horatio’s greater surprise, he reaches out to link their hands together. Hamlet’s fingers feel paper-thin against his. “What’s the occasion?”

“The Elsinore Literary Society is having some kind of bash. Pretty underground stuff, since it’s invitation-only with a plus-one option,” he grins, his heart bright and happy. “You should be able to hold up your own in a room full of James Joyce nerds.”

Hamlet opens his mouth as if to say something, but then closes it. Horatio wants to ask what it is, but knows Hamlet well enough to know it’ll only distance him further.

* * *

“So what’s the deal with your friend? The one with the geographical name.”

Horatio looks up as Ophelia plops down to sit across from him. They’re in the Elsinore dining hall, the one with better comfort ice cream than the others, and Horatio thinks it is way too early for conversation. He _especially_ thinks it is too early for conversation with the girl he saw Hamlet dancing with from the party last night.

He and Ophelia usually get along great since they bear the same temperament, but this fixation with Hamlet has made him so unlike himself that he finds himself slightly annoyed. Ophelia doesn’t know of his feelings, but if she does she won’t even be asking about Hamlet. That’s how sweet she is, and Horatio wishes she wouldn’t be—just so he wouldn’t feel so damn bad about himself.

“What about him?” He’ll play dumb.

“Are you two an item, or is there room for me there?”

“Why on Earth would you think we’re an item?” He is now all too aware of the faint fluttering of hope inside his chest.

Ophelia looks at him as if he’s being monumentally stupid. “Horatio. You talk about him all the time, and so does he about you.”

“I do not!” Does Hamlet? The faint stirring of hope is now feverish, distracting him from anything else on his mind.

“You so do! The other day you saw a pile of leaves on the sidewalk and said that it reminds you of him. Same with the color black, Hozier, and ballpoint pens.”

“That’s not—that isn’t—you don’t him the way I do. The guy is an emo heart attack. He never sleeps, he’s always in black, he speaks in Hozier lyrics, he has a leather jacket that doesn’t fit him but insists on wearing anyway—”

“You are so totally smitten.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“This is kind of cute,” says Ophelia, and pats his hand in a faux gesture of sympathy. “I got Viola’s number anyway; I was just asking to see if I could get a rise out of you.”

“You are wicked,” Horatio tells her.

* * *

Hamlet sometimes returns to their dorm looking as if he’s seen a ghost.

His face is deadly white and strands of dark brown hair stick to his forehead. Horatio looks up from his book in concern this time. “Hamlet, are you okay?” What a stupid question: Hamlet is many things, but _okay_ doesn’t adequately describe his state of existence on most days.

“I was on the phone with my uncle.”

“On bad terms?”

“Very bad terms,” he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut as he plops down on his bed. “He told me that I’m wasting their money and _additionally_ my life. Says that I’m aimless and lazy and ignorant of the ways of the world.”

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” Horatio swallows, wishing that he has the guts to draw Hamlet into an embrace. “Do you want to talk about it?” He doesn’t expect anything to come out of that offer, so it surprises him when Hamlet instantly releases his frustrations.

“Well, he killed my father and chased after my mother and somehow thinks that a marriage contract to her now makes _me_ beholden to him as a fucking son when he wanted nothing to do with me all my life.”

Horatio’s eyes widen. “Holy crap.” He wants to ask more, of course he wants to ask more, but this doesn’t seem to be the right time for concrete details.

“God,” Hamlet pinches the bridge of his nose, “my family is such a fucking mess.”

Without registering what he’s doing, Horatio strides across the room to sit next to Hamlet. Their knees press together and his arm flushes against Hamlet’s, the coldness on each of their skin canceling the other out to make room for warmth. Hamlet doesn’t move an inch as Horatio puts his arm around him, but the tension in his body loosens as he tucks his head beneath Horatio’s chin.

Horatio doesn’t allow himself to think.

“I think I’m going to go to bed,” says Hamlet. “I’m tired.”

“Oh, okay,” Horatio says, beginning to disentangle himself. Trying to hide the disappointment on his face.

“Stay with me?” Hamlet blushes at his own request. “We—we can sleep on my bed. No funny business, promise.”

Horatio doesn’t know what ‘funny business’ constitutes, but he doesn’t want to cause Hamlet further embarrassment by asking for clarification. So he nods and watches as a gentle smile conquers Hamlet’s face.

They fall asleep to the same rhythm.

* * *

There is a sudden light among the darkness of Hamlet.

His cheeks beam rosy red and a dusting of freckles shines against the curve of his nose, and Horatio allows himself to look at them before Hamlet could open his eyes.

He knows Hamlet is awake when he sees the ends of his mouth curl upwards, and the arm that is tightened around his waist moves so his hand can frame Horatio’s cheek with a gossamer-light touch.

Horatio’s heart catches in his throat.


End file.
